Brief Ecounters with Modern Earth Celebrities
by FlapperSlapper
Summary: Like 'Hot Tub Time Machine' or 'Snakes on a Plane', the title pretty much explains it all. Features that skinny bloke in trainers and a pinstripe suit.


**Author's Note: I have a few more ideas for these little type of stories, so this may turn into a bit of a mini-series - especially if I know that people enjoyed this one.**

* * *

When Britney Spears spent a few hours at an Antigua drug rehabilitation center in February 2007, she had several doctors. She was rather resistant to the whole idea of needing rehab at first (and wished she'd beaten Amy Winehouse to writing that song), but after seeing how patient and understanding the psychiatrists and physicians were, she began to believe that she'd be comfortable there for several weeks. That is until, she met _the _Doctor.

Dr. Stillerman had just finished giving her another speech – which included several doses of the phrase "we're so glad you're in here!" - when the Doctor ran into her personal private room, grabbed her hand, thrust her forward and yelled "get out! Get out now!"

Unlike the other stuffy overweight old doctors, he was cute. So, she obliged and ran weaving in and out of several hallways holding his hand.

He sprinted like the devil (or perhaps the paparazzi) was chasing him, but oddly, not a single person blocked their path to –

"The parking lot!"

"Huh?"

"I've read your 2078 autobiography _Opps…I Knitted a Scarf for my Fifth Great-Granddaughter Again_. You're a fixed point in time, Britney. We've got to get you outside and safe!"

They reached the main entry/exit doors (no security – very strange) and flung them open, where the most shocking thing wasn't the lack of a single camera flash, but the Doctor's next words.

"Shave your head."

"What ya say?"

"Britney, go bald. As soon a possible, trust me. You can't let those doctors or paparazzi get even just a single snip of your hair. They're very advanced now, those Slitheen."

Again, this guy was too cute (and confession time: she had managed to smuggle in a few drugs and was correctly under the influence of one), so while she had a million questions, Britney's scrambled brain allowed her to speak only a peculiar inquiry:

"But won't I get wet? If I don't have hair?"

"Wellll, you can use an umbrella. Teal-ish green would be rather stylish, no? Could be a rather effective weapon against sport utility vehicles too, I suppose. Nooow," he gave her a push on the back. "Run! Go, err…seek Amy! Go to the circus!"

"Huh?"

"Oh. Right. Too early. How about some advice then, from a royal Lady? If you're ever in caught in a bad romance, just dance and show 'em your best poker face. Don't…don't use those though."

"Use what?"

"Exactly."

* * *

After the unfortunate _Titanic_ incident, the Doctor decided to cheer himself up a bit by staying in exactly the same time and place. Wellll, _relatively_.

Instead of London 2008, he directed the TARDIS to London, Christmas Eve 1999 – specifically the Powell Estate, in order to make good on a long overdue promise to one Miss Rose Marion Tyler.

Unfortunately, due to the atmospheric influence of the oncoming snowstorm, the TARDIS brought him to 1989 - ten years before Rose should receive her red bicycle. The Doctor could easily correct the course, but he decided that two-and-a-half-year-old Rosie deserved a nice fun gift too.

After purchasing a giant stuffed duck and an accompanying pink tutu (humans had a funny little habit of clothing fake animals, didn't they?) , he stood outside the Tyler's flat at nighttime, tying on a giant red ribbon and a _Happy Christmas_ card. He had just finished, when he felt a tap on his knee.

He turned around and saw a little boy - likely around age six or seven - staring up at him in fascination. "Are you Santa?" the child asked, green eyes dancing with delight, despite the snow in his brown hair and his frozen red cheeks.

"No. What makes you think I'm Santa?," the Doctor ask, before deciding to tease the adorable kid a little. "Wait, are you calling me fat?"

"No, Mister. But you're de-wiv-er-wing a pwresent, and it's Chwristmas Eve."

"Oh. Clever." The Doctor glanced around the empty street, and squatted down. "Where's your mum and dad? Anyone know you're here?"

"I'm vwisiting London for Chwistmas. We're staying in the hotel." He pointed directly behind himself, where sure enough, a somewhat dilapidated hotel stood at the time. "If you're giving out pwresents, can I have one…pwease?"

"Uh…" Having only purchased the duck, the Doctor felt around in his pockets. Besides the necessary trio, (psychic paper, sonic screwdriver, brainy specs) there was an Agatha Christie novel, a half-chewed banana-flavored granola bar, a scientific calculator, a pint of chocolate-banana astronaut ice cream, several scented pens, and a feather from an endangered Raxacoricofallapatorian cockatoo-like species. The Doctor packed lightly in his tuxedo.

"Sorry," he told the boy, "I don't seem to have anything you'd –"

"I wike your bowtie."

"You like my – oh?" The Doctor reached and snapped the neckwear off. "Here you are, then."

"Thank you, Mister." The boy accepted the black piece of silk with a huge grin. "So, if you're not Santa, who are you?"

"Call me John. John Smith."

The boy's eyes lit up even more. "That's my last name, too!"

"Oh yeah - Smith? Good name. I've known quite a few Smiths, and they were all brilliant. What's your first name, then?"

"Matty."

The Doctor pat him gently on the head, before standing back up. "Happy Christmas, Matt Smith."'

* * *

"Hello Kanye, I'm delighted for you," the Doctor, began, approaching Mr. West during the filming of a new video, in which one of the featured dancers was suspected to be smuggling alien drugs in her breast and buttock implants. "Honestly, I am. And I will allow you to finish, but I just wanted to inform you: the best music video of all time hasn't been created yet. In fact, that won't be until the year 2655, once three-dimensional television – complete with smell-o-vision, taste-imagery and high-sensory feel-experience – is finally invented. So, I am sorry. Oh, I am so so sorry. But welllll, you'll never live to see the best music videos of all time."

"Of all time!" Donna emphasized, "Ha!"

"Ha!" The Doctor confirmed.

"Who you be, bro?" Kanye asked.

"I'm the Doctor."

"Dre?"

"No, just 'The Doctor'."

"Man, that name is whack."

And then the Doctor found Kanye's laptop, easily figured out his password (_ilikboobz_) and deleted his Twitter account.

* * *

After leaving Kanye's set, the Doctor accidentally stumbled onto the filming of another video. In fact, he bumped right into the lead singer as she was slipping into her tiny glitter top.

"Astrid?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Oh wait, Kylie? Blimey, Kylie Minogue, yes! Spacial genetic multiplicity. Brilliant. I can't believe I hadn't noticed the resemblance before."

"Excuse me, sir, but I –"

"No worries, I'll be out of your hair in a moment. It's just such a pleasure to meet you, Kylie. Really, such a pleasure. I'm a big fan." He offered his hand.

Kylie had to shift her body to prevent full breast exposure, but she reluctantly shook the Doctor's hand. "Err yes, you too. Listen, if you'd like an autograph, please speak to my publicist; she'll mail you one. I really need to get changed now, or I'll be late."

"Ah, welllll it's never too late, right? Said so yourself. Give me just a little more time. Really – you should be so lucky to talk to me. What do I have to do? I just can't -"

"Let me guess – 'get me out of your head' ?"

"Exactly!"

"Doctor!" Donna approached. "Hi Kylie, I'm sorry. My mate here, he's just a bit –" She crossed her eyes and rolled a finger. "Come along, Doctor, we don't want to get stuck in the video or anything…" She yanked him away.

"But I didn't get to ask if her favorite film's _Titanic_! Or suggest she wear a French Maid's costume in the video! Let's go back. Maybe I can use psychic paper to convince her that I'm the replacement Director or Choreographer or Food Prop Specialist or -"

So, if you spot an outrageous number of bananas in the party scene of Ms. Minogue's 2012 hit video, you now know why.

* * *

Once, when traveling with Martha, the Doctor meant to land the TARDIS in Spain 9019, but ended up in the corridor of train in 1990. A woman in the facing compartment sat with her mouth agape at the apparition, and upon glancing back at her, Martha's face went into the same shape. "J.K. Rowling! Doctor, that's…I think it's J.K. Rowling!"

"Oh? Brilliant!" The Doctor stuck his head out the TARDIS door, and flashed some psychic paper. "So sorry about the train delay. John Smith, Train-tertainer. Complementary magical entertainment for the inconvenience. You can take a look inside if you'd like, I suppose."

Joanne looked utterly stupefied. "Your police box?"

"Oh yes! It's bigger on the inside."

"Oh." Her face dropped and she closed her eyes, speaking calmly to herself. "You've fallen asleep. This is a dream. He talks of the stuff of literature."

"Right. Yes. Exactly. This 'magic' – all in your head. Your brilliant little head, J.K."

"J.K.?"

"Joanne. Right. Yes. Wellll, better get used to J.K. I'll be off then though. Allons-y!"

"Wingardium Leviosa, TARDIS!" Martha yelled.

"Feel free to use that," The Doctor told the author. "The bigger on the inside deal, too." He started to close the doors, before Martha called out again.

"I'm Martha! Martha Jones. Remember that name…if I dunno, you ever, want to do a film or anything! I acted in two of my primary school plays! And remember his face, too. He's called the –"

The Doctor slammed the door, and muttered something about DNA-copying aliens having a habit of stealing his face and creating perfect clone-actors for entertainment value and profit.

Apparently, this sometimes lead to a variety of female humans demanding he sign his name on beloved items, exposing too much of the skin above their breasts, professing their love for him, or any combination of the three.

Fortunately, the Doctor's face was generally different than at the time of that film's strongest popularity (okaaay, Martha didn't know what that meant), but the rare trouble was something he'd rather avoid. And as for Harry Potter, he insisted that his likeness not be used for He Who Most Not Be Named (whom the Doctor refused to name, out of respect for titles like his own), and that (sadly), his face wouldn't work for any of those ginger characters.

* * *

I met the Tenth Doctor last night. It was at a Manhattan bar. He had a bit too many banana daiquiris, and told me dozens of fantastical stories about his life. Once he sobered up, he threatened to contact some old friend of his (a captain, I believe) and force me to take an amnesia pill (_Metcon? Setcon? Recton_, maybe?).

He hasn't come by with the drug yet, so I'm quickly typing up what I can remember. Forgive me for any grammatical or spelling errors, as I am still a bit hungover.

And if you ever see the Doctor, please tell him that Jodi says hello, and that I have figured out a way for him to peacefully give Casanova that chicken he owes him without too much bloodshed. Also, feel free to add that my bed is always open to lonely Time Lords, and that both that captain friend of his, and a man whom the Doctor kept referring to as his "Master", are welcome to join us.


End file.
